


Growing Friendships

by netherguard



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: (I barely know what Im doing sorry), Cute nerds with poor social skills who cannot flirt to save their lives, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Romance, dunno yet, maybe worse language later, mild language (if that needs to be tagged)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6341386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netherguard/pseuds/netherguard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the new farmer in town is hard, but being the new farmer with zero social skills and a giant crush on the loner nerd is harder. What's a guy to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growing Friendships

You weren’t really sure how this was going to work when you came out here, giving up your old life and all. People don’t just make such dramatic changes easily. But now you’re glad you did.

Grandpa was right way back when. You really needed the change. You hadn’t expected it to come in the form of a farm – much less a farm you would actually end up _liking_ – but Grandpa had been right. It’s a peaceful, content life. You discovered that you could stop worrying about so many things if you just remove the things from your life. 

All you had to worry about now was your farm, and your first spring had gone surprisingly well for a city slicker learning how to grow living organisms for the first time – that juniper bonsai tree back home didn’t count, you left it outside and it took care of itself. There was only one of you and a lot of work to get done each day, but it kept your mind occupied and the results were _yours_. They belonged to _you_ , not some faceless company that took your hard work and made it _theirs_ , whether you wanted them to or not. The task of maintaining a farm is daunting, yes, but this is a rewarding life.

The other townspeople make it worth the trouble, too. Like your farm, they were strange at first, set in their country ways; ways that you had to learn to understand before you could properly interact with them. Even now, most of them are still wary of you, but a few of them greet you with pleasant smiles. Like your farm, which is still pretty wild and in need of some serious yard work in more places than not, working with the townspeople is rewarding. You enjoy seeing them open up slowly as you earn their trust and teach them that you’re not just another tourist here to oogle the simple people. You like comparing them to your farm. On one hand, you have to learn how to grow plants. On the other, you have to learn how to grow friendships. Sometimes they didn’t seem so far apart, and with nothing else to worry about, you find that you really enjoy cultivating these two things.

Oh, you suppose you’re currently worried about dinner, too. Linus had just sent you what promised to be the best fish taco recipe you’ve ever seen – by that, you mean the _only_ fish taco recipe you’ve ever seen that looks worth trying – but you had to have fish to make that work. So here you are, in the pouring rain, fishing pole tucked under one arm and little more than a plastic poncho to keep you dry, making the long trek out from your farm to the beach. At least it’s summer, you think. You’re not cold. Your pants are soaked from the knee down, but your feet are still dry inside your boots and the rain is warm. Linus tells you all the time that he loves warm rain. You’re starting to appreciate it too.

They say fish like to bite in the rain. Not that you know much about fishing yet, but you’ve heard some stuff. Now that it’s in the middle of a summer downpour, you figure the fish should go absolutely crazy. That’s probably not how it works, but you’ve got nothing better to do this evening. Might as well try.

The smell of salt water slaps you in the face as you cross the little stone bridge and step into the wet sand. You discover this stuff is surprisingly hard to walk in while it’s sopping wet and decide that next time, maybe you’ll wait until just after the rain stops. But you’re here now and you don’t plan on turning around.

You make your way down to the docks, old, rickety, wooden old things that make you a little uncomfortable, but Willy runs around on them without a care in the world. That old guy has seen far more things on this beach than you, and you think if he trusts them, you can trust them too. You almost expected to see him out here, fishing pole in hand as always, whistling some shanty to himself while he waits. He’s nowhere to be seen, though – smarter than you, you think. He’s probably inside and dry and relatively comfortable…

That’s when you see someone that you _didn’t_ expect to see, someone you don’t even know – weird, there are people left in the town that you don’t know? You were sure you’d seen just about every face… He’s facing away from you and looks like a big blob of black from behind – black hair, black shirt, black pants, black shoes – who in the heck even wears this much black in Stardew Valley? Besides you, of course, but you’re the still-somewhat-awkward outsider who hasn’t quite given up all his city-boy ways. It’s normal for you to wear all black and somehow survive in the summer sun (a skill, you call it, cultivated carefully from your early years). But who _else_ wears all black?

As you step closer, you hear some weird things. The rain on your plastic poncho makes it hard to hear clearly until you’re just one set of wooden posts away. It’s music, you realize. Electronic, and you know it. It’s actually on your phone right now, somewhere, you haven’t listened to it for weeks, but you still know the words. It’s coming from his waist, a pocket probably, to protect whatever device he’s using.

You didn’t know there was anybody in Stardew Valley like this. Who in the world _is_ this?

He hears the next step you take and turns to look and, oh no, he’s pretty. He’s probably trying to look irritated, but he’s standing out here in the rain with literally nothing to keep himself dry and it looks a little bit silly. The water makes his hair look so black, you wonder what color it actually is when it’s dry. It sticks to his face and neck, and you also wonder if his skin is really that pale or if it’s an illusion, or if he’s been standing out here drowning himself long enough to be really cold. His eyes are so dark, maybe it’s just the black clouds above making them look so dark, and he looks like he hasn’t slept for days. But he’s so _pretty_. 

You realize he’s just staring at you, a vaguely, tired, displeased look on his face, like you interrupted something important but he doesn’t have the energy or presence of mind to yell at you. You don’t know what to do, so you just smile and shrug one shoulder, indicating the fishing pole under your arm. His eyes narrow and he makes a more annoyed grimace, turning back around to stare out over the ocean.

And then you mentally kick yourself in the teeth. Just because he’s pretty doesn’t mean you have a good excuse to go totally braindead. Normal people (well, normal people in a little valley community) greet others and introduce themselves, not smile like a hopeless loon and show off a fishing pole, you can do better than that! 

“I don’t think I’ve met you before,” you say as you take your place on the other end of the wooden platform, trying to give him his space. Again you kick yourself. Of course you haven’t met him before, and he would know that without you pointing it out. He grumbles something. You don’t know if it was “Trying to keep it that way,” or if you’re just hearing things.

You give him a bit to decide whether or not he wants to respond and start setting up your pole. He doesn’t respond, though. He just stares out to sea, ignoring you. Well, that’s a little bit rude, don’t you think? From anyone else in the town, it would probably be called rude. You get the feeling it’s normal for this individual. But you’re horribly stubborn and a brute for punishment. After a few moments, you try again. “My name’s Ceiriosen. What’s yours?”

Today is just International Ceiriosen Kicks Himself In The Teeth Day or something, you could swear. Obviously this pretty guy doesn’t want to talk to you or he would have said something by now. He’s still playing that song, too, maybe trying to pay more attention to it than you. You wait hopefully for a response, but when you don’t get one, you try not to look like a rejected schoolboy and go back to stringing chunks of oh so appetizing dead bugs onto your hook.

“Sebastian.” The voice takes you so off guard you almost shove the hook through your finger. Probably shouldn’t have been so surprising, but you had fully convinced yourself that you’re too lame for the pretty guy and that he wouldn’t answer. You can’t tell if his tone is angry or not.

Okay, time to make a fool of yourself, you think. You’ve never been good at talking to anyone you deem even remotely pretty, and moving to the Middle of Nowhere hasn’t changed that. In fact, you think as you attempt to figure out what to say next, it might have just made it worse. Maybe it would be best to start off with something really general. Like, _really_ general. “Nice to meet you, Sebastian,” you say, not looking up. You’re quite confident that your tone sounds pleasant and friendly, but you’re also quite confident that your face is very red, so you continue fiddling with the baited hook in your hands, pretending to be very busy.

Sebastian makes a tired sound in response. He sounds just as tired as he looks. You catch yourself almost commenting on it – no no, that would be weird, even if you’re concerned for his wellbeing. Especially if you’re concerned for his wellbeing, you just met the guy, that would be weird. Why is talking to pretty people so hard…

“What are you doing.” 

It’s more of a statement than a question, and again, you hadn’t expected him to say anything. Your head jerks up to look at him, fading purplish blond hair falls in your face – you may have given up the city, but nothing could make you give up the punk. 

“I’m… baiting my hook?”

“You’ve been doing that for three minutes.”

You look back down at the hook and try to hide your embarrassment with irritation. “It’s… a good luck ritual, force of habit.”

Sebastian makes a sound that you think might have been a tiny, half-dead excuse for a laugh. “Well you won’t catch anything with the hook in your hands, farmer.”

You toss a miffed glare in his general direction and he looks like he’s enjoying himself now – he still looks tired and vaguely irritated, but there’s the beginnings of a shit-eating grin on his lips. The smartass. You absolutely _love_ it.

It’s tempting to try to show off a little – you know you aren’t that bad at fishing, and this guy looks like too much of a nerd to know how to fish at all, you’re probably a better fisherman than him. But you remember what happen the _last_ time you tried to show off in front of someone pretty and you don’t feel like enduring that humiliation a second time. So you grumble a little and stand up to cast. You feel like he’s watching you, but you don’t look to check. You just pay attention to what you’re doing, lest you get the hook stuck in your forearm again. 

It was a good cast. Shame the waves will have your bobber against the dock before too long. You sit back down and hope something bites before then. Now you can really feel Sebastian watching you, though. You don’t look up. You’re too embarrassed to look up, he’s watching you and probably judging you. Instead, your nervous habit takes over and you fuss about your hair under your hood – stupid plastic hoods don’t fit right, hoods in general don’t fit right in the first place with hair as long and thick as yours, it’s so frustrating. 

The rain begins to slow, out of nowhere. It’s been pouring for an hour now. Summer rains, you can never predict them. You don’t remember where you got that phrase from, but it sounds like something your grandpa would have said. The sky opens above you and the sun comes out. So much for fishing in the rain, but at least now your pants can dry out…

There’s a frustrated sigh beside you and footsteps. Sebastian is walking away. Your eyes follow him as if glued to his back, forget the bobber that may or may not disappear at any moment. Dozens of ‘the one that got away’ jokes fill your head, but none of them are funny, they’re all really embarrassing and a little bit painful because you’re serious, he’s getting away and you can’t stop him without looking like a lunatic.

Oh, to hell with it, quick, say something, don’t just _sit there_ —

“I’ll see you around!” you call out, a little too fast, a little too shrill, with a little too much smile. God, you hope you don’t sound as desperate to him as you do to yourself. But he doesn’t respond. He just keeps walking. You think you might have seen a little bit of a shrug, but that could have been from him digging around in his pockets – the music stopped, he must have turned it off. 

Oh well. You tried, but he still got away. You’re not the best fisherman yet, you think to yourself. You’re not the best socially skilled person yet, either. This shouldn’t be as surprising or as disappointing as it is. You go back to your pole and the bobber now bouncing pitifully just under your feet.

“What’re ye doin’ out here inna rain, boy?” Oh, there’s Willy, shouting, clomping along the pier with his own fishing gear in hand. 

“Fishing?” you answer, confused. Isn’t it obvious?

Willy laughs. “Inna rain? Ye look like a drowned rat!”

You scowl and do your best to look intimidating – you have a fishing pole and by golly, you’re not afraid to use it. “Fish bite better in the rain, though.”

Willy continues to cackle like he’s heard the best joke of the year, plopping down beside you and slapping a hand on your shoulder, almost knocking you off the damn pier.

“Maybe, maybe, but yer hook’s gotta be out there!” he points out in front of you, as if you weren’t aware that the waves had brought your bobber to your feet, as if you hadn’t already heard that joke once today.

Maybe that oracle TV show was right. It’s just not your day.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not an experienced fic writer, but I wanted this to happen, here you go, I'm sorry.


End file.
